'Tis true, Messapus, fearless of his fate,
With fierce Atinas' aid, defends the gate:
}
{ On every side surrounded by the foe,
{ The more they kill, the greater numbers grow;
{ An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow.
You, far aloof from your forsaken bands,
Your rolling chariot drive o'er empty sands."
Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declined,
And various cares revolving in his mind: